


A Sky Full of Stars

by BrighteyedJill



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Angst, Animal Death, Bullying, Dream Sex, Elves, Forbidden Love, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Torture, M/M, NSFW Art, Non-Graphic Violence, Romance, Secret Relationship, Soul Bond
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-24
Updated: 2018-06-01
Packaged: 2019-05-13 05:04:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 15,126
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14742500
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BrighteyedJill/pseuds/BrighteyedJill
Summary: The dappled sunlight played over Buck’s face, making him look like a magical creation, some kind of illusion. Steven reached out a hand to touch, to make certain he was real.Buck started and pulled away when Steven’s fingers made contact.“Sorry!” Steven snatched back his hand. “I didn’t--”“No, don’t. It’s only that I have never touched a human before.” Buck captured Steven’s hand in his and guided it back to rest against his cheek. “Go ahead.”





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [L1av](https://archiveofourown.org/users/L1av/gifts).



> Special thanks to buckmebxrnes, whose art was very inspiring, to the RBB mods for making everything work, to jaune chat, allivia and Bethany for beta-ing and encouragement. The elves in this fic ended up being an amalgamation, but I’d like to acknowledge Wendy and Richard Pini’s graphic novel series Elfquest (available online for free!) for providing inspiration.

“There he is.”

“Huh, thinks he’s too good for the likes of us.”

“Or just scared to go against you at jump-stones.”

Mean laughter reached Steven over the cheerful bubbling of the little creek, and he turned around to see a group of boys coming down the path out of the forest. He kept from heaving a long-suffering sigh, which wouldn’t be “princely behavior,” as his ma always said. He thought he’d wandered far enough away from the town’s Midsummer festivities to avoid the other children, but luck seemed not to be with him today. 

Steven recognized only a few of the boys, those whose fathers sat on the Council. High-born, all of them, kitted out in smartly cut tunics probably made new for the holiday and paid for by taxing the labor of some poor peasant or smallholder. Steven smoothed a hand over his own worn tunic, which he’d worn since last Midsummer at least, as he hadn’t outgrown it, and his ma always said a ruler should be a model of thrift.

“Good morning,” Steven said as soon as they were close enough. He had no interest in hearing why these oafs had come seeking him. “I was just leaving.”

“Oh come now, Your Highness. Stay.” One of them stepped in front of Steven to block the path. Up close, Steven could see it was Owen Hodge, whose father was the Lord Martial. “I want to know if it’s true that Dartin Warrel beat the stuffing out of you last turn of the moon.”

“That can’t be, Owen,” another one of the boys said, voice bright with false concern. “Didn’t you know the penalty for striking a member of the royal family is a hundred lashes?”

“Nah, that’s only if he’s not too ashamed to run to his mama and tell her he’s too weak and too much of a coward to protect himself.”

“Let me pass, Owen,” Steven said, trying to keep his voice even.

“Is that an order, my liege?”

Steven shouldered Owen aside, grateful that the larger boy gave way, and started back up the path. Not too fast, though. Not running. 

“Oh, the little princeling doesn’t want to play,” one of the boys crooned.

“No surprise, sickly little thing like him. Hard to believe he’s the son of such a strong king.”

“Well, look who his mother is.” Owen’s voice was dark with malicious glee. “What did you expect when the king married that godless foreign whore?”

Steven whirled around. “You take that back.”

“Come and make me.”

Steven charged at Owen, anger bleeding all the sense out of him. He should know not to rush an opponent half again his size, and sure enough, Owen laid him out with a single swing of his meaty fist. His boot connected with Steven’s belly, but Steven pushed through the pain to roll aside and scramble to his feet. He could taste blood from where Owen’s fist had split his lip, but he raised his hands, ready to fight.

“You don’t know when you’re outmatched, do you?” Owen asked, and the other boys laughed.

“I could do this all day,” Steven said.

After that, the fight was mostly a blur. Steven got in a lucky blow that would probably leave Owen with a black eye. The others joined in, then, taking turns holding Steven’s arms behind him so Owen could hit him. That part wasn’t so bad. Steven just had to endure, and not give them the pleasure of crying out. They’d tire of the game soon enough. Owen got in one more good punch that would certainly give Steven a black eye to match the one he’d dealt out. Then the boys holding Steven shoved him into the mud beside the stream. 

Owen crouched beside him. “You better not go telling on us, princeling. In fact, why don’t you say you got attacked by some drifters visiting for the fair. My friends and I chased them off, didn’t we, lads? In fact, tell them you gave us your sword out of gratitude for saving your life. Fenn, get it off him.”

One of the larger boys grabbed at Steven’s scabbard. Steven clamped his hand over his sword belt and thrashed in the mud, trying to get his feet under him. He hadn’t thought to draw his sword during the fight. Never draw steel unless you intend to end a man’s life, the weapons master always said. And these petty bullies weren’t worth it. But they weren’t taking his weapon. 

“Get it!”

“No!” Steven shouted, and kicked at the boy leaning over him. “That was my father’s!”

“You don’t deserve it!”

“Get your hands off of me!”

There was a hollow thunk, and the boy grabbing at Steven's sword belt stumbled backwards. Then another thunk, and Owen jumped away, holding his hand and shouting. 

“What is that?”

“Where’s it coming from?”

The boys scattered. Steven watched as a little stone whizzed through the air and hit the ankle of a retreating boy, sending him dancing away, screaming. 

“Bandits! Run!”

They scrambled away up the path, covering their heads as they went. 

Steven lay there for a moment, wheezing and trying to make his limbs obey his commands, but no gang of highwaymen came charging into the clearing to run him through. He finally managed to sit up. He splashed water on his face from the stream to get the mud out of his eyes. 

The forest was calm again, and the birds had gone back to singing. Steven scanned the path, the far bank of the stream, the edge of the wood. Then he looked up. Sitting in the tree above him was a boy not much older then himself. A farm boy, Steven thought first, because his clothes were a mottled patchwork of brown and green, and he was holding a slingshot like the shepherd boys used to keep away wolves. But then Steven noticed the ears-- delicately pointed, rising to an elongated tip above the cloth the boy had tied around his forehead. 

“Forest spirit,” Steven whispered.

“Why were those children trying to kill you?” His accent was strange, like he was more used to singing than speaking. 

“Wouldn’t have killed me,” Steven grumbled, but he realized he wasn’t entirely certain. “I’m not scared of them.”

The spirit cocked his head to look at Steven. “You are scared of me?”

Steven considered that for a moment. “My ma says that Midsummer is when the veil between the spirit and human worlds is thinnest. She told me that where she grew up, they left gifts for the forest spirit on those nights.”

“Your ma’s a northerner?”

“What if she is?” Steven asked, immediately wary.

“It explains your hair. Like sunshine.” The boy leaned back against the trunk of the tree and regarded him. “Folks around here do not leave us offerings. If they see us, they try to kill us.”

“I’ve seen the skulls on the pillar of sacrifice.” Steven had seen them this morning, in fact, among the flowers draped around the pillar, painted with bright red pigment as a luck-wish for the men who were out hunting today. In years past, Steven had seen the sacrifices that had left those skulls, too, but here and now, talking to an actual live forest spirit, such a thing seemed too horrible to contemplate. “So are you a forest spirit, or are you a demon, like the Council says?”

“Humans call us all sorts of things. Demons, spirits, elves.” The boy grabbed hold of the branch he was on and swung down to land next to Steven. “What do you think?”

Steven studied him-- a few finger-widths taller than him, chestnut brown hair held back with a cloth around his forehead, clothing and gloves that fit him well and blended into the trees, and a confident smile that somehow didn’t look arrogant. “Why’d you drive those boys away? I was fine on my own.”

“Did not seem like a fair fight. Besides, their yelling was scaring away all the game. Have to bring home some birds or my ma will scold.”

“Oh.” Steven wasn’t allowed to hunt on his own, or do much of anything on his own, really. He’d managed to give his guardsmen the slip this morning, but they’d be searching for him now. He looked down at his festival clothes, dripping with mud. “Speaking of scolding, I’m going to catch it from my ma if I come home looking like this. I should try to clean up.” He cast an unenthusiastic look at the bubbling stream, swift and cold with snowmelt from the mountains.

“I know where there are hot springs.” Buck looked at him with a bright smile, and Steven suddenly had trouble thinking of anything else. “I can take you there, if you want.”

Steven looked at him a moment, then back at the stream. Then he extended a hand to the forest spirit. “I’m Steven Rogers.”

“Buck.” He reached out to take Steven’s hand in both of his, gave a quick bow, and then let go. “Come along, Steven Rogers.”

Buck picked up a few rocks from the bank of the stream and slipped them into his pocket, and gripped his slingshot tightly. Then he reached out to grab Steven’s hand, covered with drying mud though it was, and set off into the thick underbrush beside the river. At first, Steven tried to keep track of their direction, but he couldn’t see very far at all ahead or behind them. Soon, he had to admit he was hopelessly lost. 

As the trees formed an ever-thicker canopy over their heads, Steven couldn’t help but think of the tales he’d heard form the boys in the village, of demons who led little children into the forest to eat them. Well, if Buck had wanted to eat him, Steven reasoned, he would have waited until the other boys took his sword, wouldn’t he?

Buck stopped, looked at Steven, and pressed a finger to his lips. Then he stepped through a curtain of vines and disappeared. After a moment, his hand poked through the vines and beckoned Steven through. Steven emerged, blinking, into a small clearing. 

Buck perched on the edge of a pool that seemed to be formed right up out of the rocky ground. Water ran from a carved notch into a second, smaller pool slightly below the first, and from there gurgled away in a pleasant stream. Steam rose from the surface of the clear water.

“You should wash your clothing first, so they have time to dry.” Buck gestured at the lower pool. He hung his slingshot from a drooping branch and began stripping off his clothes. 

Steven undid his sword belt, then fidgeted with his tunic, uncertain what to do next. He glanced over to see that Buck had already stripped to his skin and flung his clothes over tree limbs. Buck turned around and noticed that Steven was still fully clothed. 

“Is this the fancy kind of human clothing you need servants to remove?” He started to smile. “There is a children’s story about a human princess who has a beautiful dress made for her, and she is meant to wear it to a celebration to choose a husband, but it takes a hundred servants a hundred years to get her into the dress, and then she is old and never gets to choose a husband, and she dies at the end. It always made me laugh.”

“It’s not like that.” Steven felt a blush heat his cheeks, and he tugged off the rest of his clothes as fast as they’d go. Buck helped him scrub the drying mud off the tunic with a hard stone from the side of the pool. The breeches were a little more difficult to clean, but by the time they finished, they at least looked halfway respectable. Buck wrung out the breeches as he looked around the clearing. 

“They need to go in the sun. Here.” He snatched the tunic out of Steven’s hands, tucked the clothing under his arm, and scrambled up a skinny fir tree to a spot where sunshine broke through the canopy and bathed the branches in light. He draped Steve’s clothes neatly over a sturdy branch and started to climb down.

Steven looked up at his clothes with a furrowed brow. He hadn’t forgotten the time Rolf, Lord Erwin’s son, had taken his clothes away when they swam in the stream, and he had to walk back to the castle without a stitch on. Buck seemed to have no trouble climbing trees naked, but Steven eyed the distance between the branches and didn’t think his chances were great of pulling it off.

“You getting in?” Buck asked from the larger pool.

With one last wistful glance at his clothes, Steven scrambled over the stone lip and found himself enveloped in the warm embrace of fresh, sweet-smelling water. The pool was easily as wide as the height of three men, and the shallower ledges along the edge gave way to a deeper middle. Steven saw Buck settle into a carved ledge that was the perfect height to sit in the water and let his legs float in front of him, so Steven found another ledge like that further along and followed suit. He looked up at the forest canopy as the water leached away some of the soreness in his joints. The silence stretched between them, but it felt comfortable. 

“This is a spirit place,” Steven said eventually. The trees and the rocks and the water all looked ordinary enough, but something hummed in the air that felt special and secret. 

“You do not have hot springs?” Buck cocked his head. “Where do you bathe?”

Steven thought that Buck might be offended to learn that no one he knew bathed very often at all, so he changed the subject. “Does this place belong to your family?”

“It belongs to itself.” Buck trailed his fingers along the top of the water, as if petting it. “We helped shape it long ago, and we keep it sheltered, but it is a free place.” He squinted across the pool at Steve. “I’ve heard about the way humans make places into possessions.” A slow grin spread across his face. “In fact, there is a children’s story--”

Steven splashed water right at Buck’s face, which shut him up nicely. Then Buck splashed back, and soon enough they were shouting and flinging water at each other, and trying to avoid getting dunked by the other. 

“Mercy!” Buck shouted, finally, when Steven has pulled him under twice in a row. He slicked his hair back out of his eyes and settled his elbows over the ledge of the pool so he could lean back against the wall and pant. Steven paddled up beside him, grinning with the thrill of victory. The dappled sunlight played over Buck’s face, making him look like a magical creation, some kind of illusion. Steven reached out a hand to touch, to make certain he was real. 

Buck started and pulled away when Steven’s fingers made contact.

“Sorry!” Steven snatched back his hand. “I didn’t--”

“No, don’t. It’s only that I have never touched a human before.” Buck captured Steven’s hand in his and guided it back to rest against his cheek. “Go ahead.”

Buck’s skin felt warm and real, just like a human’s. Gently, Steven traced a finger up the length of Buck’s pointed ear. It should have looked strange, but instead it just looked right, a perfect fit with his handsome face. Steven’s hand came to rest cupping Buck’s cheek. He started to pull away, but Buck raised his own hand to lay over Steven’s and hold it there. 

Then Buck learned forward, and Steven got the sense that the spirit was trying to look into his soul. His eyes were blue, and they didn’t hold the fires of hell or the dark promise of witchcraft, like the legends said. When Buck reached out his fingers to brush against Steven’s lips, just at the tender spot where he’d been hit, Steven couldn’t suppress a shiver at the feeling that flooded through him. Buck gave an answering shiver, his lips parted slightly and his eyes going wide. Then Buck snatched his hand back and pushed away from the wall to swim to the opposite end of the pool. 

“Your clothes should be almost dry. I need to get back, before my ma wonders where I am.”

They said nothing at all as they dressed, or as Buck led Steven back to a part of the forest he recognized. But when Buck turned to leave, Steven felt a cold tug in his belly that was something like fear. “Please,” he said, and Buck looked back over his shoulder. 

Steven pulled the sword from its scabbard, and Buck backed away, but Steven only held it awkwardly away from his body and turned it until he could press his left palm against the point. A drop of blood welled up, bright and crimson against his pale skin. He held up his hand toward Buck, and after a single wary glance at the sword, Buck stepped forward and placed his hand against Steve’s, palm to palm. 

“I hope we see each other again.” Steven tried to put all of what he felt into the words. “I hope I’m there whenever you want to find me.”

Buck pulled his hand back slowly, and turned his palm up to look at it. Nothing looked different to Steve, but Buck’s eyes widened slightly, and Steven felt another shiver of pleasure warm him. 

Then Buck gave him a nod and retreated into the gathering twilight.


	2. Chapter 2

Buck had only taken one pheasant-- thoughts of that blond human boy seemed to be making it harder to hunt-- when he started to feel a nervous dread that came from somewhere outside of himself. After a quick scan of his surroundings, he crouched next to a tree and sent out his awareness, following the threads he always carried with him. The momentum of the dread carried him until he felt his mother brightest among the threads, her fear sharp and hot, rising up in his throat. 

He’d barely opened his eyes before he was running as fast as he could down the path towards home. He kept hold of the thread that was his mother, and as he drew closer, he could tell she was waiting for him at the edge of the village. He ran to where she was, slowing to a stop in front of her and breathing out in relief that she appeared unharmed. 

“What’s wrong?”

“Where have you been?” She had her bow slung across her back, and a look on her face as stern as any Buck had ever seen. “I told you not to go outside the usual hunting grounds.”

“I’m sorry.” He hoped the sincerity of his contrition would cover up the guilt he felt at lying to her. “I saw a pheasant that would have been--”

“No.” She cut him off with a sharp motion of her hand. “We have to get back to the council grove. They’re discussing whether to send a rescue party out.” She set off down the path and Buck followed close after her. 

“Rescue party.” Buck pushed out his feelings once more, looking for the answering vibrations in the currents of the forest. Response pulses came from Clint and Sam, and then, more distantly, Nat. He could feel his sisters, his father. He was shamefully glad, for a moment, that it wasn’t his family this time. “Who?” he asked, when he opened his eyes again.

“Nat’s mother. They came further in than they ever have. It was like they were deliberately hunting us.” She gripped her bow so hard her knuckles turned white. “The humans are so hateful. Would they were all dead.”

“Mother, don’t talk like that. You’ll call bad magic.” Buck couldn’t think of the pale boy he met today, his kind eyes, the warm touch of his fingers tracing Buck’s ears, and the thrill it sent through him. Was the boy around the pillar of sacrifice now in the town, chanting with the rest, hungry for blood? He stole a glance down at the palm, where the smear of the boy’s blood had worn away. Buck could still feel the warmth of lingering magic. 

They were some of the last to arrive in the grove, but Buck picked Nat out of the crowd immediately. She sat curled against one of the large roots of the Father Tree, with Clint settled beside her, holding her. Buck weaved through the crowd, skirting past the adults already in council. He knelt before her, and her eyes took a moment to focus on him. “Nat?”

“I can’t feel her anymore,” Nat said. Her eyes were dry, but Buck could sense the pain pouring off of her through their link. “It’s too late.”

“Are we going after her?” Sam had appeared next to Clint, his bag of healing supplies slung over his back. Buck realized with a pang of fear that with the old Healer too sick to travel, Sam would be the one to go out if they sent a rescue party. 

“It’s too late,” Clint said quietly. He smoothed his fingers over Nat’s hair and huddled close against her. Buck set down his game bag, and Sam his satchel, and they settled down there in the shadow of the Father Tree, breathing in each other’s sorrow.


	3. Chapter 3

Steven nodded every time Lord Brandt paused in his speech, but he’d stopped paying attention long ago. He’d thought that the Ritual he’d undergone would have made more of a difference, since strength and beauty were all the Council seemed to care about, but every day it became clearer that even if he wasn’t the weak, sickly youth he’d been before Stark’s spell changed him, the leaders of the kingdom’s Council viewed Steven as a mere figurehead, a doll they could parade about in public, but not someone whose political opinions should be seriously considered.

Lord Brandt finished at last, and Steven said, “I’m going to get some air. We can continue this discussion when I return.” Though it looked like Lord Brandt might protest, Steven pushed his chair away from the table and made for the door out to the gardens. As the crown prince, he did have some privileges of rank. He took himself out to the sprawling gardens at the back of the palace, where servants were tending the plants, but he was unlikely to run into any of the nobility, who seemed to consider stretching their legs to be beneath them.

For a time, Steven had doubted his own abilities, too. Becoming crown prince at such a young age had meant he’d always had advisors running the kingdom on his behalf. But Steven had a secret source of confidence the advisors did not know about: he’d won the affection of a man who was a worthy prince in his own right. Though Buck’s people viewed the duties of a prince quite differently from what was expected of Steven, still it had been a boon to sit with Buck and together discuss a difficult judgement that Buck had to make, or a thorny political problem Steven had to navigate, or defense plans against raids by bandits.

_“Nonsense,” Buck said as he poked his finger into Steven’s side. They were tucked close together in Steven’s bedroll, drowsy in the aftermath of their lovemaking and cozy in the chill fall air, looking up at the stars that peeked out between the leaves of the grove where they had made camp. “If there’s a noble who doesn’t have his people’s best interests at heart, then he doesn’t deserve a seat on the Council.”_

_“It’s not that easy, Buck. Owen Hodge may be an idiot and a loudmouth, but his family’s well respected in the kingdom.”_

_“Our Elders earn a place on the Council, not buy it.”_

_“How? Who gets to decide?” Steven turned on his side and propped his head up with one hand. “And what happens if everyone else in the tribe disagrees with the person who decides?”_

_“It’s not any one person, because no one person should have such power to shape the tribe. It’s a trial by combat.”_

_“You’re joking.” Steven squinted at Buck’s face in the near dark, looking for a sign that Buck was teasing him._

_“How do you think I was chosen to be the next chief?”_

_“Wasn’t your father--”_

_“You humans are the ones obsessed with bloodlines. When I came of age I challenged the head of the Council, and I won.” He turned in the close confines of their blankets, putting his back to Steve. “But no one else fought for the honor. The tribe needed a defender, and I was it.”_

_“Why would you-- why would anybody-- choose this?” Steven asked, too incredulous to be more diplomatic about the question. “I was born into my position, and I’d have given it back a hundred times if I could.”_

_“You care about your people, yes?” Buck turned back, and in the starlight, his eyes seemed to glow. “Don’t you want the best person taking care of them? The best warrior defending them?”_

_There came a swell of something like longing in Steven’s chest, so strong he almost vibrated with it. “Of course I do. I’m just not convinced being King is the best way to do that.”_

_“But if you’re King, everyone has to obey your commands.” A mischievous grin crept onto Buck’s face._

_“Even you?”_

_“Only in your dreams, Steven!” Buck flung and arm over Steven’s back and pulled them tight together. “Besides, as an_ anonora _, I would have special privileges.”_

_“_ Anonora _?”_

_“It is… beloved. Bonded one.” Buck tucked his face into Steven’s shoulder and muttered, “It means other things as well.”_

_“Like what?”_

_“I’m not teaching you everything! You are a lazy pupil,” he said, laughing. “Come, teach me a human word I don’t know.”_

Steven reached the end of the garden, nodded to a gardener who had bowed to him, and strolled along the bottom of the rampart wall, stopping now and then to crouch and smell the blooms of the flowers that were coming into their summer strength. _Vainin_ , the elves called that little red one, Buck had told him. Blood flower: an ominous name for such a small, harmless plant. Steven had picked up Elvin words, at first, from terms Buck used when he didn’t like the human name for something ( _kaie_ , he used, or jackal, instead of the title “lord”), or when there was no word for what he meant ( _tienten_ , which Buck used to describe Steven’s attitude when he was too angry to talk sense).

 Then Steven had begun to ask Buck what this word was, and that one, and soon enough Buck declared that if his pronunciation was going to continue to be dreadful, he may as well learn grammar. That had been something to share together, lying in a meadow together in the summer, or curled beside the fire in the hunting cabin Steven had commanded be built for his “winter hunting retreats.” The effort had been worth it to watch Buck shake and moan when Steven whispered everything he wanted to do in Buck’s own language.

Steven had made a habit of long walks or rides through the forest in the past few years. It gave him a handy way to disappear for a rendezvous without anyone in the castle getting suspicious. An unanticipated side-effect had been his reputation as a thoughtful young man. Apparently the maidens in town had taken to calling him the Pensive Prince. Buck had laughed when Steven had told him that.

_“You? Always ready to fight at the drop of a hat? Pensive!”_

_“I can be thoughtful.”_  

_“Brooding, maybe. But you jump before looking more often than not. Remember that lake with the rock-biters?”_

_“How many times are you going to bring that up!”_

 Lately, though, as their responsibilities had increased, it had been harder and harder to find time to arrange a liaison. Lord Brandt was always demanding that Steven attend this event or that, or Lord Stark wanted him to try out some new magic device, or High Priest Zola had some dire warning for him about the signs in the stars and the doom they foretold. It sometimes seemed as if Steven’s time and even his body were not his own to control, given over to service of the kingdom until there would be nothing left of him.

On the day before the last new moon, Steven had seized on an alignment of the stars that the High Priest had mentioned to insist that he needed to undertake a personal religious retreat. He could tell Zola had wanted to protest, but couldn’t figure out how to object to such a suggestion. Brandt had grumbled, too, but for once Steven had done something solely for himself.

_“It’s quiet here,” Steven said, as he sat beside the fire with Buck slumped against his chest, gone limp and lazy after their exertions. Steven had ridden for a whole day through rough terrain to reach the foothills of the mountains where the humans never hunted out of superstitious fear of the gods. “I’d forgotten what it’s like to feel at peace.”_

_Buck shifted, wrapping his arm tightly around Steven’s chest with so much strength he could barely breathe. “Do you know I’ve thought about taking you away from there? Stealing you from your kingdom and keeping you here with me.” Buck sat up then, putting distance between them. “But you have your responsibilities, and I mine. So we should be content with what little we have, yes?” He wore a smile, but it lacked the life and warmth Steven knew it should have. Steven felt a simmering unease in the pit of his stomach that pulled at him like a living thing._

_“_ Yai ta levvo,” _Steven said. He took Buck’s hands in his and held on, eyes fixed on Buck’s face, illuminated by flickering firelight. “I love you.”_

_“_ Levvo ta,” _said Buck. “Let the gods and all the world know it.” He surged forward and took Steven’s face in his hands to hold him still for a kiss. Then they sat for a moment, heads together and breathing. The unease had turned to a warm, pulsing contentment that Steve felt passing between the two of them. “Steven, if all I have of you is a night once or twice a season, I will treasure that.”_

_“It won’t be this way forever.”_

_“Hm.” Buck did not sound convinced. “When you are a king and I am a chief, it will be different?”_

_Steven stared into the flames, watching a log disintegrate into burning embers. “Maybe then our people won’t be at war.”_

_“Maybe,” said Buck, and then they sat in silence._

Steven turned onto the garden path back towards the Council chamber. He’d delayed long enough, and he’d regret it if the councilors became offended at the delay. But tonight he’d see Buck again. The preparations for Midsummer festivities caused enough confusion around the castle that no one would notice Steven’s absence. Thinking on the promise of that sweetness would help the interminable Council meeting pass more quickly.

As Steven approached, he came upon Lord Stark standing outside the archway to the council chamber. He offered Steven a pointed look.

“Have I shirked my duty too long, Howard?” Steven asked. 

“These old windbags will blow until judgement day,” Stark replied. “But it’s better to know what their plans are than not. I’ve told you before, politics--”

“Hang politics. Politics don’t make a good kingdom. Good people, good harvests, fair taxes--”

Steven felt a twinge in his chest, a sharp pain that stopped his breath, but the feeling was gone in the next instant. 

Stark seemed not to have noticed. He was shaking his head, chuckling. “You’ll never change, Your Highness. Your father was the same way. Certain of his path, even if everyone else was against him. Let’s go back in.”

The other councilors barely acknowledge Steven’s return, so engrossed were they in whatever they were discussing.

“It’s not a matter of doing what we’ve always done,” Lord Brandt was saying. “That simply won’t suffice.”

“With no sacrifice for the last several years,” High Priest Zola said, “the gods have grown angry.”

As he took his seat at the table, Steven remembered to look serious, and like he had nothing to do with the recent failures to find an Elfin victim to sacrifice. 

“Our men have employed a different strategy this time to trap a demon.” That was Lord Kruger, who commanded the High Priest’s personal guard.

“What strategy?” Steven asked.

“We suspect the demons learned that Midsummer is a dangerous day for them,” Kruger explained. “Therefore, we sent out hunters this morning at dawn, before they think to hide themselves away from us.”

“I’ve forged spelled chains that should hold the prisoner until the sacrifice,” said Stark. “We still don’t know everything their demon magic can do, but if anything can hold them, it’ll be these.”

“The gods will be pleased,” Zola said. “Is it not good, Your Highness?”

“Yes.” Steven felt hollow. “Very clever. 

As the councilors filed out, Steven slipped his hand under the sleeve of his tunic and fingered the beaded bracelet Buck had given him. It was a token, he’d said, that his people exchanged when they declared a love bond.

_“The betrothed must wear it a full turn of the seasons before the elders will consent to a handfasting,” Buck said as he’d wrapped it around Steven’s wrist in the pale dawn light after Steven had saddled his horse and they stood together, neither wanting their time to end._

_Each small wooden bead was carved with an intricate design, and as Steven held it up to admire it, he realized he’d seen Buck carving these in the winter months, his bone-handled knife steady in his hand, frowning in concentration at the delicate work._

_“It is a sign of devotion,” Buck said._

_“Is there someone….” Steven swallowed hard. “Someone in your tribe that you should be… handfasting with?”_

_“You’re not very intelligent, Steven. I’m beginning to think the legends about the humans are all true.”_

_“Is there?” Steven asked again, and the ache he felt squeezing his insides seemed to double all of a sudden before subsiding to a manageable level._

_“No,_ anonara _.” Buck settled his arms around Steven’s waist and pulled him close. “There is not”_

  _Steven stared at the bracelet. “What if I wore this? Openly?”_

_“There are people of yours, priests, who would know what it is and what it means. One of them would notice. They’d say you were possessed by demons. Probably you would be killed.” Buck shook his head, and his grip on Steven tightened. “I imagine your councilors would like that very much.”_

_“How do you know all that?”_

_“Do you think you are the only human ever to have walked this path?” Buck drew back to look Steven in the eye. “We Elves have long memories.”_

  _“It doesn’t seem right, to take this from you and keep it a secret.”_

  _“I’m your secret, as you are mine.” Buck delivered a fierce, possessive kiss. “That’s what we’ve always had, Steven.”_

Steven walked blindly through the garden and up the steps of the castle wall, where the guards on duty quickly bowed to him, then returned to their duty. He wanted to run to the stables, mount his horse, and run after the demon hunters. But they’d left at dawn, and Steven didn’t know where they had gone. And what would he do if he caught up to them? Kill his own subjects? Demand that they abandon the quest to claim a sacrifice this year? Buck had been right-- they would think him possessed.

 He stared out across the woods, searching for he knew not what. Perhaps that feeling he sometimes got that all was well: that Buck, wherever he was, felt safe and content. It may have been that that feeling had always been just his imagination, a fond invention to comfort him between the times when he and Buck could meet, but today he found no comfort even in invention.

 In his bones, in a persistent, humming ache that stuck with him no matter how far he walked, he knew something was badly wrong. He doubled back along the ramparts and headed for the far side of the castle, then took the stairs up the east tower two at a time until he arrived at the heavy door of Lord Stark’s workshop, which stood open.

 The place, as usual, was a jumble of unidentifiable metal and wood parts laid out on long tables. The forge blazed at the far side of the room, throwing off waves of heat that the breeze from the windows couldn’t dispel. The walls, covered in shelves that held jumbled books and jars of mysterious magical ingredients seemed to crowd in, making the room seem positively claustrophobic despite its size. Stark stood next to a table in the center of the room, prodding at some glowing metal ring.

 “Stark?” Steven called from the doorway.

 “Good evening, Prince.” Stark fiddled a bit more with his current project before picking it up with wooden tongs and tossing it into a nearby barrel of water, where it hissed, sending a plume of steam out into the already overheated room. Then he turned his attention to Steven. “To what do I owe the pleasure of your visit?”

“The spelled chains you mentioned. How do they work?”

 “The chains?” Stark raised an eyebrow, but when Steven didn’t say anything further, he went on. “For starters, they’re almost impossible to break, much like the shield I made you. The problem we’d been having is that the demons are damnably good escape artists, and once you catch one, the real danger is getting him back to town without a whole swarm of his fellow demons descending on you in a fury. It’s as if they know when one of their own has been taken.” Stark shook his head. “Do you know anything about demon magic?”

“No,” Steven said. In truth, Buck hadn’t told him much. Maybe there were a few things Steven could guess at, if he cared to share his suspicions: like the way Buck always seemed to be able to read Steve’s moods, and could find him unerringly even if they’d only agreed on the vaguest of locations for a liaison. “Nothing.”

“There’s no one who knows much. I’m the closest we have to an expert, and most of what I know is conjecture and guesswork.” Stark strode over to an overflowing bookshelf and plucked a thick tome from the mess. He flipped it open and turned it to show Steven a page cramped with ink sketches and scribbled notes. “For the chains, I used runes and incantations that should dampen any magic the demon attempts. I can’t stop magic completely-- nothing can that I know of--but I can make it harder to do.” Stark closed the book and returned it to the shelf. “Now, I’ve seen demon magic do some strange things, so of course there’s no guarantee they’ll hold him--”

 “Hold who?”

 “Didn’t the messenger find you? There’s good news.” Stark clapped him on the shoulder. “Zola’s hunters caught a demon! Now the old windbag can stop wailing that the gods have abandoned us.” 

“Oh, yes,” Steven said, but he felt frozen, unable to move.

“Do you want to see the chains in action?” Stark asked. “If they work, I’ll make more next year. We could catch two, three, a dozen, maybe. The gods would have to favor us, then.” 

“Yes,” Steven said, hoping his voice sounded calmer than he felt. “I’d like to see.”

Steven followed Stark down the narrow stairs of the tower and through the winding corridors down to the darkest parts of the castle, below the earth, cursing the slow pace Stark set. When the lanterns on the wall no longer allowed them to see the way, Stark tapped a stone on his ring, which began to glow as they entered the castle’s long-neglected dungeons. The smell of damp stone with the metallic tinge of blood rose up around them, and Steven thought he could hear voices somewhere beyond the circle of light. 

As they descended a short stairway, Steven felt a sharp pull like a hook in his belly, pain and sorrow tugging at him with the force of a living thing. He stumbled forward, bumping into Stark, then caught himself and tried to look like nothing had happened. In truth, he wasn’t sure the sensation was anything other than his own overwrought nerves. 

Stark raised an eyebrow. “Watch your step, Your Highness. This way.” He pushed a thick wooden door, straining his shoulder against it. 

The room beyond was brightly lit with torches and lanterns, as well as an open fire in a hearth against the far wall. There were a dozen people, at least, most wearing the red robes of Zola’s acolytes. As Steven stepped across the threshold, pain and a dull, tired terror rose up in him so strongly that he had to steady himself against the rough stone wall. The other men made way as Stark led Steven forward. He knew before looking what he would see.

Buck lay on a rough wooden table, bound with iron chains that glowed softly even in the blazing light of a dozen flickering flames. His clothes had been flung on the floor in a heap. Steven recognized the soft doeskin breeches he’d stripped off of Buck a dozen times or more, the armband of iron and leather Buck had explained was a symbol of his tribe, and the red beaded circlet he’d worn since he’d been named the future chief. Steven stepped closer, taking in the contours of Buck’s body that he knew so well, marred now with cuts and burns, his eyes squeezed tightly shut and his breath coming harsh and raspy.

From the side of the room, High Priest Zola approached. The sleeves of his robes were stained with blood. “Ah, Your Highness. As you can see, our method for catching a demon has proven successful.” 

“Chains are holding?” Stark asked. 

“Perfectly.” Zola stroked a hand down Buck’s bare arm, bound with the glowing chains, and Buck shivered without opening his eyes. “It seems you may have found a way to sever the demon from his magic. If this is true, there are many other ways we could fight the demons with this method.”

“Well, don’t count your chickens.” Stark crossed his arms over his chest. His voices sounded uncharacteristically strained. “I don’t trust something if I don’t understand how it works, and demon magic’s never exactly been predictable.”

“The power of the gods will overcome.” Zola turned to Steven. “If you don’t mind, Your Highness, I have some experiments to complete before the ceremony tomorrow. It is not often we have one of these creatures at our mercy. I must make the most of the time. If you’ll excuse me.” Zola gave a perfunctory bow, then turned back to the table.

“Come on, Steven.” Stark tugged at his arm. “I think we’ve seen enough.” 

Stark led him back through the underground corridors. They walked without words, and Steven felt as if a thread of fear and despair was unspooling behind him. At last they passed through the stables and out into the gardens. The sun was just beginning to set, taking the warmth of the day with it.

“I apologize, Your Highness.” Stark settled on a bench beside a neatly tended bed of flowers, and fiddled with his ring. “I shouldn’t have taken you there. I didn’t know what Zola had planned. 

“Stark.” Steven sank down on the bench beside him. “Do you believe the gods want us to torture men like that?”

“He’s not a man, Your Highness. He’s a demon,” Stark said, but there was little conviction in the words.

“You do magic no one else can do.” Steven grasped him by the shoulder and turned Stark to face him. “You’ve seen more of the world than any man in the kingdom. You really think the beings our people call demons are so different?”

“It doesn’t matter, Steven,” Stark snapped. “I can do great things with the magic I wield, but I can’t change centuries’ worth of hate.”

“Stark.” Steven stared at him, measuring his options. “What would you say if I asked for your loyalty?” 

“You have it,” Stark said warily. 

“And your secrecy?”

At that, Stark leaned back and crossed his arms over his chest. “What are you planning?”

“If you help me tonight, I will swear I will do something for you someday, something worthy of what I ask tonight.”

“Prince, do not say something like that to a magician.” Stark pushed to his feet and retreated a few steps down the path. “It’s not safe.”

“I will.” Steven stood and followed doggedly after him. “I’ll owe you and your blood a great debt.”

Stark let out a sigh, then turned to Steven. “What do you need?”

In the end, it took only guile, not magic, to do what was needful. Stark didn’t bother to tell Steven what he planned, only that the dungeon would be empty of guards after the stroke of midnight. When Steven descended into the depths of the castle wrapped in a dark cloak, armed and armored, the hallways were filled with smoke, and shouting echoed from the courtyard, but no one was there to stop him.

Buck looked like he hadn’t moved in the hours Steven had been gone-- ye holy gods, _hours_ he’d been at Zola’s mercy. Steven touched his fingers lightly to the sweat-beaded skin of Buck’s forehead, and he flinched away.

“I’m sorry,” Steven whispered. He pressed his hand against the spelled chains, and the rune Stark had inked on his palm melted into them. Their glow subsided, and they dropped away, collapsing into a pile on the floor.

Steven didn’t dare take the time to re-dress Buck, but he tied his clothes into a bundle and searched around the dungeon for Buck’s other things. His bow was nowhere to be found, but Buck’s knife, the one his mother had given him on his naming day, with its white bone handle carved into the shape of a wolf, Steven tucked inside the bundle of clothes. He wrapped the woolen blanket he had brought around Buck and lifted him off the table. Buck felt lighter than a grown man should. The brittle bones of an elf, Steven told himself. It wasn’t that his spirit had fled, or that Zola had reduced him in some substantial way. 

Steven carried his precious burden out through the doors to the small courtyard, where he’d left a horse saddled and ready-- one of Lord Phillips’ hunters, not Steve’s own, which might be recognized. The horse shied a bit as Steven settled Buck into place against him, but settled down as they rode out through the postern gate in the castle’s back wall.

Whatever Stark had used as a distraction seemed to have drawn half the town to the front of the castle, because the streets Steven guided his horse down were practically empty, with no one to remark over the man in a dark cloak, or the figure swathed in a blanket slumped in the saddle before him. 

Once they had cleared the last of the city’s buildings and the broad city wall, Steven urged the horse into a canter. _Hours,_ he thought again, as he settled his hand over Buck’s chest to make certain he still breathed. It was his fault Buck had been taken, his fault for taking so long to get him out. Buck didn’t deserve to die. Surely the magic of the forest spirits could save him. They could do things no human could dream of. Surely they had skill enough to save their prince.  

Though the path through the woods was barely visible in the moonlight, Steven drove the horse as fast as it would run. He held an arm around Buck’s chest to keep him upright, and scanned the woods for any familiar landmarks. Buck had never taken him into the Elves’ home territory, but surely it must be beyond the places where the humans hunted. If he kept going west-- 

Steven saw movement just in time to bring his shield up to cover himself and his precious burden, but the arrow hit its mark, straight through the horse’s throat. The horse screamed and turned as it fell. Steven wrapped his arms around Buck as they tumbled from the horse’s back. His shoulder slammed into the hard packed earth of the road, but he managed to spare Buck the worst of the fall. Ignoring the pain that pulled at him, a slow throb like a bleeding wound, Steven staggered up to crouch over Buck, shield raised. He pulled his father’s sword from its scabbard, and scanned the woods for targets. Where there was one arrow, there were certainly more. He hadn’t imagined the town’s guards could come after him this quickly. But perhaps--

There, in the shadow of the woods, Steven saw a tall man with his bow drawn, and he raised his shield in defense. Except it wasn’t a man-- the man’s ears were pointed and long, same as Buck’s: a fellow forest spirit.

“Get away from him, human,” the spirit said. His accent was thick, but Steven had listened to Buck so often that he had no trouble understanding.

“Please,” Steven said, in Elvish. He could hear Buck’s incredulous laugh at his dismal pronunciation. It had always seemed excusable, then, his inability to speak with the same effortless musicality Buck always had. Steven had never imagined Buck’s life would depend on Steven making himself understood. “Please, he is hurt.” 

The archer said something too fast for Steven to understand, and glanced across the road to where another forest spirit, a woman, was holding a drawn bow and garing at Steve. “He speaks our language,” she said to the other spirit, and she sounded furious. “How?” 

“I’m sorry.” Steven tried again. “He needs help.” He shifted, thinking to pull Buck closer to him, but both forest spirits trained their arrows on him and readied to let fly, and so Steven slowly returned to where he’d been. “Your prince is injured. He needs assistance.”

This time, the woman answered in the human tongue. “Get away from him.”

“Please tell me you’ll help him.”

“I will shoot you, human. With pleasure,” she said, clipping the consonants of the human words so that they sounded guttural and cruel.

Steven looked at Buck’s pale face, streaked with blood. He thought he could feel a pulse in his chest, slow and painful, and weakening by the moment. Steven tossed his sword into the dust of the road, and let his shield slide from his hand. He stood and backed away from Buck, keeping his eyes on the women with the bow. 

The man darted forward and lifted Buck up in his arms. He backed away to the relative safety of tree cover, then pushed back the blanket and leaned down, pressing his forehead against Buck’s. He stayed there for a moment, breathing, and Steven could almost feel the pulse of connection pass between them. Then the man raised his head, looked at the other forest spirit, and nodded. They both began to back away. 

“Wait a moment,” Steven said. The female forest spirit raised her bow again, aiming it at him. Steven held up his hands to show he meant no harm. “His things.” Slowly, without breaking eye contact, Steven shuffled over to the horse and pulled the saddlebag from off its body. He tossed it onto the road.  “His mother’s knife.” 

The man settled Buck against the side of the tree, then stepped close enough to squat beside the bundle, tug it open, and glance inside. Now that he was out on the road, in the brighter moonlight, Steven could see the forest spirit’s face. He was younger than Steven had thought: perhaps just a few years older than Buck, with close-cropped hair, which seemed strange until Steven realised Buck was the only forest spirit he’d seen up close. 

The man looked intently at Steven and asked, In Elvish, “Who are you?”

“A… friend,” he said finally. He didn’t know how much Buck had told his tribe about them, and no matter how Buck teased him about handfasting, he might not appreciate Steven laying claim to him in that way, especially not now. After what had happened to him tonight, Buck may not want anything more to do with Steven or his people.

The man looked at the female forest spirit, still holding her bow drawn and ready. She looked at Steven for a long moment, and he felt a pressure inside his mind, like someone was trying to break open his soul. Then it passed. The forest spirit lowered her bow. 

“Do not follow us.” She turned and melted into the woods, with the other forest spirit beside her. Steven listened intently, but heard nothing. These Elves must have shared Buck’s ability to move in the forest too silently for Steven to detect, but surely they were taking him away, back to the care of their tribe, back to safety.

Steven dropped to his knees in the road, suddenly gasping for breath as a bolt of longing went through him and seemed to stream out from him all at once, pulling taut while Buck was taken ever further away from him.


	4. Chapter 4

Buck awoke in his own bed, in the aerie he’d built with his own hands. He could hear the song of birds in the branches and the rafters outside, and feel the gentle sway of the tree as the wind blew. For a moment, he wasn’t certain why he was here now. With the light at that angle through the open windows, it must be late afternoon. Had he been out all night on a hunt? He couldn’t remember. Then he turned his head and saw Nat curled up in the woven reed chair at the foot of the bed.

“Nat?” he croaked. His voice sounded weak and strange.

Her head snapped up, and when she met his eyes, her expression was at first one of joy. Then her eyes narrowed, and suddenly her anger pounded at him through their connection. Buck gasped as the heat of it scalded him, and threw a hand up as if that could stop her.

“Nat!” Sam appeared in the door to Buck’s bedroom, demanding both their attention. He glared at Nat. “Out, now. That’s for later.”

With one final, unreadable glance at Buck, Nat unfolded herself from the chair and slid past Sam out of the room. Looking down at his own body, the healing cuts and the burns packed with poultices, Buck began to remember: waiting in a shady grove just inside the human territory. The sound of a horse. Running and falling. Pain and darkness. The wind in his hair and a comforting arm around his chest.

“I’m not dead,” Buck said, looking at his hands where the magic of those cursed chains had left livid marks around his wrists.

Sam settled on the edge of the bed. Up close, Buck could see he looked exhausted, as he did when he’d pushed to the limits of his healing magic. “You came close.”

“I don’t remember coming back here.” Buck remembered being in the woods. Remembered being at peace, and the pleasant buzz of anticipation. Before he realized it, there’d been a dozen men surrounding him. “They had magic. I didn’t hear them coming.”

“Didn’t hear them coming, or you thought they were someone else?” Sam asked. His impassive look made Buck re-examine what he knew.

Yes, he’d been nearer to human territory than he should have been. He’d told Steven they would--- oh. Buck swallowed hard. Steven. How had Buck gotten back to his tribe? He didn’t remember escaping. “What--” he began, but Sam interrupted.

“A _gajjha_ brought you back to us. He spoke our language.”

“A _gajjha_?” Buck looked at his hands, trying to reach outside of himself and look for Steven, but it was like pulling a sore muscle: he didn’t have the strength to find him. Or, it occurred to him with a rush of horror, he wasn’t there to find. The tribe never left a human alive who had seen them, not if they could help it. His hand darted out to grab Sam by the wrist. “Is he all right?”

“Nat and Clint let him live.” Sam frowned at him. “I’m not certain they would have, if they’d known he was the reason you were taken in the first place. “

“He isn’t.” Buck knew, in a place so deep it wouldn’t be shaken, that Steven had had nothing to do with the men who had captured him. ”He wouldn’t.”

“You were careless.” Sam gestured at Buck, the array of wounds on his body, his general weakened state. “You forgot to fear the humans.”

“I’m sorry.” When he closed his eyes, Buck could remember the soft caress of Steven’s hand on his skin, and the searing pain of hot metal burning his flesh. They had nothing to do with one another, not really. Steven would never have done those things. “I should have known better.”

Sam narrowed his eyes at Buck, and Buck felt him reaching out, testing Buck’s feelings around the edges. Then his eyes widened and he sat back. “You love this _gajjha_.”

“What makes you think that?” Buck tried to turn away, then realized he hadn’t the strength to sit up. He couldn’t hide his face from Sam any more than he could hide his feelings.  

“I know you.” Sam was looking at him with a wry smile. “No suitor has ever made you look like that, not one. Not that dark-haired princess from the island tribe, not the prince of Wakanda--”

“Sam.” Buck closed his eyes for a moment, trying to think of what he could say that would make Sam see in Steven everything that he himself did. “If I could make you understand--”

“It’s forbidden.” Sam settled his hand over Buck’s, gently, so as not to put pressure on the bandaged cuts. “Showing yourself to him, teaching him our language.”

“Aren’t we supposed to listen to our feelings, Sam?”

“Listen to them, not let them rule us.” Sam turned his head away. Buck said nothing, knowing it was better to let Sam come to his next thought in his own time. “He left powerful magic on you.”

“What do you mean?”

“Strong wishes.” Sam kept his hand pressed against Buck’s and closed his eyes. He offered up a link, so close and familiar that Buck could hold onto it even in his weekend state. Then Buck could hear the whispered impression of wish magic in Steven’s husky baritone: _please let him live, this is my fault, he has to be okay, please I’d give anything, even if I have to be the one to die._

“Sam.” Buck snatched his hand away, surprised to see that it was shaking. “Tell me you didn’t--”

“No,” Sam said immediately. “I used the power he put into you, and I didn’t do anything to him. Not that I didn’t want to.”

“Thank you.” Buck slumped back against the bedding, the sudden terror that had welled up inside him receding.

Sam regarded him with a severe look. “What were you thinking?”

Buck thought back to the days and nights he’d spent in Steven’s company, stolen moments of pleasure and contentment that felt more real to him than anything else in memory. He thought of his marks carved into the beads of the bracelet Steven had agreed to wear, which were so familiar to Buck after holding onto them for months, waiting for the right time to see if Steven wanted him, that it was as if he could feel them under his fingers now. “He’s a part of me, Sam.”

Sam pushed off the bed and went to stand at the window. The forest looked beautiful from up here, Buck knew, with summer fruits and flowers on the trees, and the afternoon sun shining off the lake and the distant river. “It can’t go on,” Sam said, almost too quietly for Buck to hear. “You know that, don’t you?”

“I can feel him, sometimes.” Buck hadn’t mentioned that to anyone, not even Steven, but if all his secrets were being laid bare, he may as well share this one, too.

Sam waved a hand, dismissive. “Like any silly, moonstruck youth.”

“No,” Buck said, so firmly that it made Sam turn to look at him. “I mean the way I can feel you, or Nat, or anyone else in the tribe. Is that possible?”

“No.” Sam shook his head. “You’re probably imagining what you want to feel.”

“It’s not that.”

“Humans aren’t the same as we are.” Sam’s hands clenched at his sides. “Every one of the tribe knows that, even the smallest children. Humans are dangerous. You remember Riley, Pietro, Nat’s mother--”

“I remember, Sam.”

“You don’t think that if the humans could feel what we feel, they would still hunt us down and murder us?”

“But is it possible?” Buck pressed.

Sam sighed and leaned back against the window. “It’s not completely impossible.” There was something in his tone that spoke of knowing more than he said.

“You’ve heard of this happening before.”

“The stories tell of all kinds of strange things,” Sam said. “Maybe this human has one of us far back in his bloodline. Maybe he learned magic to deceive you. Maybe something you’ve done together caused magic to change him. I can’t say.”

“He brought me back.” Buck looked back down at his body scarred and weakened, but alive, and thought about Nat’s anger, Sam’s exhaustion, the fear he remembered, thinking his life might very well be over. “They would have sacrificed me. But he brought me back. No human has ever done that.”

“No,” Sam said softly. “They haven’t.”

Buck gritted his teeth and managed to push himself up to a vaguely upright position, ignoring Sam’s disapproving hum. “The others are angry, then?”

“Nat is,” Sam said. “But you knew that. Clint hasn’t decided. We haven’t told anyone else. “

“You haven’t?” Buck asked with a start. He’d been sure he was going to have to deal with the disapproval and disappointment of the whole tribe. Perhaps that was why Sam looked so exhausted; he’d performed the healing all by himself. “Why?”

“I wanted to know what I thought myself, first.”

Buck resisted the urge to reach out and try to read what Sam felt. “And what do you think?”

Sam sighed and dropped into the chair by the foot of the bed where Nat had been, his head in his hands. “What do you imagine will happen between you after this? Are you going to go live in the _gajjha_ city? You think he will perform a handfasting with you in their temple? What happens the next time his people come to trap us or kills us or burn down the forest to appease their gods?”

“I’m not abandoning the tribe,” Buck said.

“You almost did!” Sam snapped.

And then Buck saw it, without having to read Sam through their connection: the fear. His friend had been genuinely scared of losing him. Not just for what it would mean for the tribe, but because they were part of each other, too, and had been since they were children.

“I’m sorry, Sam.” Buck slumped back against the bed, suddenly terribly, crushingly weary. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you before. I don’t know yet what I can do. But I promise to talk to you before I do it.”

“That’s all I ask.” Sam managed a small smile.

“Can you send Nat in?” As weary as Buck felt, if Nat had been half as shaken as Sam by what had happened, Buck owed her an explanation. “I should talk to her.”

“Yeah.” Sam pushed to his feet and headed out, but turned back in the doorway. “If she spontaneously sets the forest on fire with her rage, I’m not carrying your heavy ass out of here.”

“That’s only fair,” Buck said. “And Sam? Thank you.”

Sam gave him a nod and went out, leaving Buck alone with his thoughts, and with a decision to make.


	5. Chapter 5

Steven looked down, saw himself naked in the pale light of the moon, and knew he was in a dream. He’d come to recognize the feeling of these dreams easily, since they’d been a part of his life every few nights for years now.

He knew, too, what he’d see when he looked to the far side of the clearing: Buck, leaning his shoulder casually against an ash tree as if he, too, weren’t entirely naked save for his circlet. It struck Steven, not for the first time, that Buck looked the part of a prince even when he wore nothing at all.

“It’s a beautiful night,” Buck said. “You told me once Midsummer was when the spirits found it easiest to visit men.”

“And yet you’re no closer than before.” Steven smiled sadly. As long as these dreams had been going on, he’d never seen hide nor hair of Buck or his people in his waking hours. Perhaps these dreams were his mind’s way of dealing with the loss: allowing him to imagine being with Buck, talking over his life, his desires, the trials he faced as prince. He stepped across the clearing, moss cool under his toes, and Buck came forward to meet him. “I wish I could see you again.”

“I’m right here, _anonora_.” Buck reached out to take Steven’s hand in both of his and pull it against his chest, where his bare skin was warm.

“Not in dreams.” Steven looked around them at the too-perfect night. The place was indescribably beautiful, but what he wanted, what he’d give up a hundred such fantastical landscapes to have, was Buck, real and in the flesh. “I’d give anything to have you back with me.”

“How many times do I have to tell you, don’t do that.” Buck tapped a finger against Steven’s nose. “Don’t say you’d give anything. That’s powerful magic. Someone will hear you.”

“You’re supposed to be around to keep me from doing stupid things.” Steven leaned in towards Buck, so close their lips were nearly brushing.

“I was never very good at that. But I did try.” Buck closed the distance between them, taking Steven’s mouth in a firm kiss and holding him in place while Buck explored his mouth, as if enthusiastically making up for time they’d spent apart. Steven could relax and let himself be held, let the weight of his crown and his responsibilities fade away into the deepening twilight.

Finally, Buck pulled away. He ran a thumb over Steven’s kiss-swollen lips. Then he stepped back, keeping hold of Steven’s hand, and looked up at the night sky.

“Do you recognize this place?” Buck asked.

Steven looked around. The trees had grown thick and strong, far enough away that the sunlight they let through their branches nurtured flowers here and there. The song of croaking frogs and buzzing insects filled the air, which was perfumed with the damp smell of growing things. Green rushes lined the bank of the tranquil stream flowing away into the distance. Around them, fireflies filled the air, lighting up their little patches of the night like an army of fallen stars.

“This is where we met,” Steven said as he put the pieces together.

“You’ve come quite a ways from that angry boy I couldn’t resist.” Buck ran his fingers down Steven’s arms, tracing the muscles there. “For one thing, you don’t need me to rescue you anymore. But I’m glad I knew you then.”

“Don’t be.” Steven curled a hand around the back of Buck’s neck and pulled them tight together. “If you’d never met me, you wouldn’t have been captured. You wouldn’t have gotten hurt.”

“You don’t know that.” Buck smoothed a hand down Steven’s back. “If you’d never met me, you might have learned to hate us demons just as much as the high priests did. You may have been the one hunting me down.”

“No.” Steven shook his head against Buck’s shoulder. “No, not you. I could never have looked at you and thought you a monster.”

 

And then Steven couldn’t bear not looking at Buck, and stepped back to take in the sight of him. Buck looked back, unabashedly bare under Steven’s gaze, skin smooth and unblemished in the moonlight, free of the damage Steven had seen those years ago when he carried Buck from the dungeon. His dreams were kind, at least in this. Over the years, his imagination had supplied changes: Buck’s hair growing longer, his body becoming harder and more muscular as he grew into his warrior’s skills, and, one summer, a bandage on his hand about which he said, somewhat sheepishly, that he’d rescued a squirrel from a river and it hadn’t been grateful. It was amazing what Steven’s sleeping mind could conjure, hungry as it was for any news of Buck. But now, with his figure limned in moonlight, Buck appeared to be some unearthly creature, perhaps the avatar of a god.

“You’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen,” Steven told him.

“Come here,” Buck whispered.

They had made love before in these dreams. It was better, more, somehow, than it had been when they’d been together years ago. In this place in his mind, Steven knew every part of Buck: what he liked, what made him moan and sob and gasp. And here, in this place, there was a kind of magic Steven had never known in their waking encounters. For each revenant touch Steven laid on Buck’s skin, he felt an answering echo of sensation. As he draped his arms around Buck’s shoulders, he felt phantom warmth on his own body. When he lowered Buck to the mossy forest floor, he could feel a hint of the cool ground’s rough texture. And when at last he wrapped his hand around Buck’s cock, he felt his own cock twitch as if it, too, had been stroked from root to tip.

Buck seemed to experience the same sensory feedback, because he shuddered as he touched the tips of his fingers to Steve’s chest, hummed with pleasure as he pressed his tongue into Steven's mouth, gasped when he rubbed a hand over Steven’s cock. Buck also seemed to know every way to bring Steven pleasure. Their touches fed into each other, driving their desire before them like a herd of wild horses, until Steven wasn’t certain of the limits of his body. He couldn’t have said, nor did it matter, which one of them reached climax first, as they both crested their pleasure together, hearts pounding as one.

As his awareness returned, Steven found himself flat on his back, breathing hard. He could hear Buck’s ragged breath beside him. As they lay in the moonlight, sweat cooling on their skin, Steven found tears welling up in his eyes. He caught hold of Buck’s hand, relieved to find him still there. “I miss you,” he whispered.

“Why is that?” Buck turned on his side and propped his head on his hand. “I’m here. I’m with you, Steven.” He raised his fingertips to touch Steven’s lips. “Until the end.”

Steven awoke all at once to the first pink hints of dawn filtering in through the window of his chamber. His heart pounded against his ribs as he swept aside the bedclothes and set his feet on the floor. Buck’s touch had felt so real. It made sense that Steven would dream of Buck again tonight, on the eve of a plan that had its seed in what Buck had been to him.

Steven went to the basin to splash water on his face. If today went as planned, he might soon find out if these dreams of Buck bore any resemblance to reality, or if they were the only reminder of Buck he’d ever have.

He dressed quickly: travelling leathers, boots, a cloak that was too warm for the city in high summer, but that might be needed in the dark cool of the forest. Most of his weapons were already carefully packed for the journey, but he buckled on his sword belt and slung his shield across his back. Playing the role of “Prince Steven” always seemed a little easier when he had his weapons close to hand. The crown went on last, but this morning, it felt lighter than usual.

A few servants gave Steven surprised but respectful greetings as he made his way to the east tower. If it was unusual for Steven to be seen going about his business of the kingdom at this hour, it was unheard of for Lord Stark the Younger to be up and about. Halfway up the stairs, though, Steven heard the tell-tale sounds of clanging and vague shouting signalling that Anthony was in his workshop.

Howard Stark had gone to his grave years ago, a casualty of those turbulent years when High Priest Zola had tried to consolidate his power, and Steven had fought inch by inch to reclaim the trust of his people and the authority of the throne. Those years had taught Steven some hard lessons, chief among them that he was not meant to be a ruler. Even though the kingdom had prospered under Steven’s rule, he’d never felt particularly at ease wearing the crown. Luckily, there were others in the kingdom who both shared Steven’s values, and had a more comfortable relationship with power.

“Good morning,” Steven called.

Anthony raised a hand to acknowledge him, but finished pounding a red-hot piece of metal with a mallet a few more times before setting his tools aside and prying off his strange, sooty face mask.

“Morning, Your Highness,” Anthony said as he tossed aside his thick gloves and began untying his smith’s apron.

“Not for much longer.” Steven held out a scroll sealed with red wax and Steven’s royal sigil.

“Oh.” Anthony took the scroll, but didn’t open it. He knew what was in it, after all. He’d helped draft the thing. “So, we’re really doing this?”

“Yes. Decrees are signed, stamped, and distributed to the court pages.” Steven lifted the crown from his head and held it out. “This is for you.”

Anthony crossed his arms over his chest. “You haven’t told me yet why you’re doing this.”

“Does it matter? You’ve always been better with the nobility. They’ll listen to you.” Steven pushed the crown toward Anthony again, but still he would not take it.

“Does it have something to do with the demon my father helped you save?”

“I--” Steven blinked several times, searching Anthony’s face for any trace of anger or judgement, but found only curiosity. “How long have you known about that?”

“After father died. I went through his journals, thinking I might find out who killed him.” Anthony stepped over to his desk to set down the scroll, and tapped a pile of slim, leather-bound books Steven had never seen before. “Obviously I didn’t find that, but there were some other, shall we say, items of interest.”

Steven stepped toward the desk, his eye on the books. “Who else--”

“No one.” Anthony handed a book to Steven. “See for yourself.”

Steven tried to open the book, but it seemed as solid as a brick. The pages did not move. With a frown, he looked up at Anthony.

“The books are spelled. Sealed with wishes and blood.” Anthony took the book from Steven’s hand and flipped it open. “I’m the only one that’s read them, or even could.”

“I see.” Steven couldn’t help but smile to know that Lord Stark the Elder was still surprising him, even after he’d been gone for years.

“So,” Anthony prompted. “The demon?”

“I have to know if he’s alive. I won’t be able to let it go.” Steven looked down at the crown in his hands, and extended it to Anthony once more. “Listen, I told your father I would owe him a boon. I’d say abdicating the crown to his son would cover the debt.”

“Just about.” Anthony looked at the crown. He sighed, and for a moment, Steven thought he would refuse after all. Then he reached out and took the heavy golden coronet. “You’d better write,” he said sternly. “I expect trade deals, foreign intelligence, the secrets of their magical--”

Steven stopped him with a hand on his shoulder. “Thank you, Anthony.”

“Yeah.” He bowed his head for a moment, then let out a quick breath and nodded. “Well. Safe journey.” Never one to be overly sentimental, Anthony set the crown on the worktable between an open book and a pile of ingots, and returned to his work.

Steven had half-expected to be stopped by a frantic courier on his way out, since decrees were being delivered all across the Court as lords and ladies woke for the day, but no one bothered him. Out in the stable yard, Steven tied the pack horse’s lead to his own mount’s saddle and led them both out into the pale dawn glow. He rode straight out through the broad lane to the city’s main gate, nodding and waving to city-dwellers on their way to begin their labor or to shop at the market or to fetch water from the city wells. Later,when the announcement of abdication was made, they would remember seeing him riding out without a care in the world, horse outfitted for a long journey, and be able to reassure each other that there’d been no coup-- that the Pensive Prince had gone off to do what everyone had half-expected of him all along, chasing his dreams and strange notions.

A feeling, perhaps intuition, perhaps the same blind hope that had started him on this path, pulled Steven westward, toward the territory of the forest spirits. He followed, his heart growing lighter with every league he traveled away from the city and the weight of his crown.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A reminder that the beautiful art in this chapter was create by buckmebxrnes. See more art at buckmebxrnes-art.tumblr.com.


	6. Chapter 6

Buck was helping Sam gather herbs when he felt an insistent tug that came from outside himself. He started at the urgent feel of the summons, tinged with a drop of fear. Across the meadow, Sam snapped upright, clearly feeling the same call. Barely remembering to snatch up his basket of herbs, Buck bolted towards the woods with Sam at his heels, headed for the council grove.

As he ran, Buck turned his focus inward, untangling the threads of feeling until he could recognize Nat (urgency mixed with anger and fear) and Clint (concern and a bit of curiosity). And faintly in the background there was something else, the barest hint of a plaintive call, thrumming like the distant beat of drums.

Nat and Clint intercepted him at the edge of the wood, both breathing heavily from what must have been a long run. Sam raced up behind Buck, and he was the first to speak. “Is anyone hurt?”

“Not yet,” Clint said. 

“There’s a human.” Nat gave Clint a momentary glare. “In our territory, by the north bend of the river.”

“So close?” Buck shook off the momentary fear that still welled up in him at the mention of strange humans, and reminded himself that the tactics he’d implemented for his tribe had worked well for years. There was no reason to think they wouldn’t work now. “How did he come this far without being stopped?”

“Scouts could have missed him,” Clint said. “He’s alone, but he’s armed.”

“Hunting?” Sam asked.

“No.” Nat looked at Buck, her face unreadable and her emotions tangled and indistinct. “Buck, it’s _that_ human.” 

“He’s….” Buck couldn’t form a word beyond that. Not _a_ human, then, but _the_ human, the only one that mattered. Steven, here, in the flesh.

“I can turn him back, if you wish,” Nat said. “If I thought you’d let me kill him, I’d have done it already.”

“We’re not to have contact with them,” Buck said. It was what was best for the tribe, he knew. He’d enforced that rule even as he’d wept over it. “It’s worked for years. It’s--”

Then Buck felt an unexpected pull at his center, spinning him like a magnet towards the east, towards human territory. His awareness raced out beyond his reach, like a hunting dog too long held back from the chase. At the very limit of his range, he brushed up against a presence as familiar to him as Sam or Nat or Clint.

“Sam.” Buck found he was clutching Sam’s arm. “It’s him. It is him.”

Sam breathed in, drawing power into himself, then reached out to link with Buck. The feeling of him probing along the line of connection that stretched away towards the east was strange, but it did nothing to break or even weaken the strong pull. When Sam stepped back, his eyes were wide.

“It’s not your imagination,” he said slowly. 

Buck gave him a wry smile. “I know that.”

“It’s not that I didn’t believe you….” Sam shook his head. “No, it is. I didn’t believe you. There are legends that say it’s possible, but--”

“What’s possible?” Nat asked, narrowing her eyes at them. . 

“A bond. A true one,” Sam said. “With a _gajjha_.”

“No.” Nat’s gaze swung to fix on Buck. “With _him_?”

“Nat.” Buck settled his hand on her arm, and she didn’t shake him off. “I didn’t mean for this to happen.”

“You’ve been dreaming of him,” Sam said. “That’s why you asked me about the legends. You wanted to know--”

“I can’t control what happens in my dreams,” Buck said quickly.

“Oh, you can’t?” Sam raised an eyebrow. “I suppose you never went to bed wishing you could see him, and then all of a sudden, there he is, talking to you clear as life?”

“Maybe I unconsciously….” Buck looked back at Sam. “Wait, what are you saying?”

“All these years, you knowing when the humans would be searching for us, knowing where they would try to strike,” Sam said. “Perhaps that wasn’t just intuition. Perhaps the bond is stronger than you think.”

“You think they weren’t just dreams,” Buck said. Unbidden, he could feel Steven’s touch on his body just as it had been in his dream last night, warm and gentle under the light of the moon. It calmed him, grounded him.

“Dreamsharing is a legend,” Clint said. “The stories say it can’t be learned, that it was a gift the gods bestowed. A _human_ couldn’t do it.”

“Buck, you said it was like the bond with any of us.” Sam gestured between the four of them. “These things grow over time. If you’ve been reaching out to each other over such a distance, for years… no wonder you can sense him.”

“Sam,” Nat said sharply. “This is a human. Their feelings are dead. Locked inside themselves. What you’re saying can’t happen.”

“He’s not like that, not closed off and cold.” When he closed his eyes, Buck remembered their first meeting: he could see Steven’s fierce blue eyes and clenched fists and skinny arms, feel Steven’s fingertips tracing the tips of Buck’s ears, smell the sharp scent of blood as Steven pressed the tip of his sword into his palm. “His feelings are loud. He’s reckless with his wishes, with what he invokes.” 

“You have seen this?” Nat asked, turning to Sam.

“When I healed him, after the humans nearly killed him.” Sam looked at Buck. “This _gajjha_ had left words on him, just by speaking them. Strong magic. He might not have survived, but for that.”

“A magician then.” Nat waved a hand dismissively. “Trying to deceive you.”

“Nat.” Sam caught her hand and placed it on Buck’s chest. “Listen to it.” 

Buck left himself open to Nat, and reached out with his feelings, which were drawn like a lodestone to the eastern woods, the territory near the borderlands. When he closed his eyes, he could feel Steven: the rough texture of leather reins in his hands, the weight of his cloak on his back, and the glowing ember of hope at his center. 

Nat gasped and pulled away. When Buck opened his eyes, she was staring at him, confusion warring with joy in her features. “He loves you. It’s as clear as it would be from one of us.”

“I have to see him, Nat.” Buck reached out to take her hands in his, and let his need flow through their bond. Nat’s feelings-- her satisfaction and pleasure at his being in love, her sorrow at that love’s object, and her regret in doubting him all vibrated between them. She squeezed his hands, then let go.

“I’ll take you to him.”  
\--

The woods had grown quieter since Steven had left the horses to rest back by that stream. He thought, then, that he’d heard an echo of Buck’s voice, but he must have been mistaken. His only company now was the pounding of his heart and the insistent tug at his core, which never seemed to slacken. 

He squinted up through the trees, trying to judge the position of the sun. He’d need to make camp soon. It would be a foolish risk to go charging around unfamiliar territory in the dark. But how he wanted to keep going. Though this wood fanned out to the horizon, though it took Steven ten years or twenty or a hundred to search it all, he would not stop. Not until he knew if Buck lived. 

With a cry of frustration, Steven dropped to his knees, landing in one of the last patches of warm, golden summer sunlight. He squeezed his eyes tight and folded his hands together as his mother had taught him when he was a child.

“Please bring him back to me,” Steven prayed. He wasn’t sure if he still believed in the same gods his people did, but he would give his allegiance to any benevolent power that could give him what he needed. “If he’s alive, let me see him. I’m sorry for what I’ve done. I want to make it right. Spirits of the forest, hear me.”

“Your yelling is scaring away all the game. I have to bring home some birds or my ma will scold.”

Steven whirled around, and there, there he was, perched in the crook of a tree like the first time Steven had seen him. “Buck,” Steven whispered. “Oh, Buck.”

“This is my tribe’s territory, you know.” Buck’s bow was slung over his back, but he made no move to draw it. “They don’t suffer outsiders to come here.”

“I’ll go, if you want me to.” Steven stumbled to his feet. “Knowing you’re alive-- it’s all I needed.” Tears stung his eyes, though he couldn’t say if they came from the joy of seeing Buck alive or the grief at being sent away. “I’ll go.” He turned to leave, wiping his sleeve across his face.

“ _Anonora_.” 

Steven froze.

With his usual grace, Buck swung down from the tree and stepped around Steven to block his path. “Have you forgotten our handfasting? Is your promise worth so little?”

“Buck.” Steven reached a hand the sleeve of his under his tunic, where he wore the bracelet still, the piece of Buck he’d carried in secret for years, its beads all but worn smooth from handling. “No. It’s been with me.”

“You know, if someone in the tribe took you for a mate, you wouldn’t need to leave.” Buck stepped closer, the evening shadows of the forest playing over his face. Now that he thought to look for it, Steven could see the hint of a smile in Buck’s expression.

Steven stared at him. “You can’t still want me. After what my people did--”

“You are your own man, Steven.” Buck stepped forward and swept Steve’s hands up in his. “You are not some symbol of your kingdom. You have been your own man for many years. Remember when you had High Priest Zola exiled? Or when you decreed that the servants’ children have schooling, over the objections of the nobles. I particularly enjoyed the year when you refused to hold a winter ball and told Lord Phillips that you weren’t his trained monkey.” Buck chuckled-- a warm, rich sound that reverberated in Steve’s chest. “Everyone who knows you would say you don’t hesitate to show your independence.“

“How do you know about those things?” Steve asked, words forming slowly from thoughts that swirled and broke apart in his confusion.

“You told me.”

“In dreams.” Steven thought back of all the nights they’d shared together-- the lovemaking, the long talks, the secrets, the things he would never have had the courage to say to Buck’s face.

“Did you not think they were real?” Buck drew closer, looking Steven in the eye. “Did you not think I was real?”

“I doubted for so long,” Steven said softly. He remembered many mornings, crying out as he awoke, so pained by the loss of the solace he found in those dreams. “It’s hard to tell what’s real.”

“No it isn’t.” Buck slipped his arms around Steven’s waist. “What’s real can be easily determined. Even very young children in our tribe can do it.” He pressed his forehead against Steven’s, and Steven felt something beyond the bounds of thought reaching for him. Instinctively, he reached back, and found himself caught and held. He could feel Buck, feel all of that he felt: the tickle of his long hair against the back of his neck, the solidity of Steven’s wasit under his hands, and the flood of joy and relief that welled up in him like a spring at having Steven once more in his arms.

“Oh,” Steven breathed. He didn’t need to open his eyes. “Maybe you're right.”

“ _Yai ta levvo_ , Steven.” The words were feeling as much as sound.

“ _Levvo ta_ ,” Steven replied.

They stood there leaning against one another, basking in each other’s presence as the sun set around them. There was no need to fear the dark or the unknown now that they were here together.


End file.
